


The Tale of a Northern Queen

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Series: A Sworn Sword of Westeros [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Killing, Love, Loyalty, POV Sandor Clegane, Sex, Threats, Violence, queen of the north, sworn sword
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-06-27 21:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15693639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: SanSan A/U: Taking place three years after The Tale of a Sworn Sword, Sansa is faced with political troubles in the North. She must shore up support, or decimate her opponents in order to maintain her power. With Sandor by her side she sets her sights on becoming Queen of the North.





	1. The Long Road Ahead

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a horrible person and just write on things when I feel like instead of seeing one work all the way through until the end. I was inspired the other night to start this chapter and figured it would be best to share it with you instead of keep it for myself. I hope you like it!

#  Chapter 1: The Long Road Ahead

 

Their ride back from the West had been an arduous one, comparably as cold and hard as a northern winter -- at least that’s what it had felt like to Sandor. It had yet to snow or even hail, but the wind had picked up and there was a dampness to the air that chilled a man to his bones. 

 

_ ‘I spent too much time in bloody Dorne.’ _ Sandor had chided himself while pulling his furs tighter around him. Stranger had snorted his agreement, as if the animal could read Sandor’s mind, and had continued on the long road.

 

Despite the size the his body and the thickness of his furs Sandor had shivered on the last leg of their journey. Sansa had teased him when no one was listening of course. “You haven’t seen a real winter yet.” Her eyes holding a mischievous twinkle. “But winter is coming, and when it arrives we’ll be ready.” The words of her house easily passing her lips, which had turned up into a wry smile. 

 

For as thin and dainty as she was, the Lady of Winterfell showed few signs that the cold bothered her. She had rode atop her mare bundled in black sable -- the brilliance of her auburn hair matching the leaves that had turned their fall colors and were making their way to the ground.

 

The only inkling Sandor had that the dropping temperature may have  affected her as much him, was her eagerness to jump in the tub with him upon their arrival at Winterfell -- it’s large copper rim barely containing the water within once they were inside. Her skin had turned pink upon contact with the scalding water, making it look as though she was blushing all over. But Sandor knew better, she was a wolf in maiden’s clothing -- no doubt about that. Sandor had learned many things about Lady Sansa in the three years he had been in her service -- all of which confirmed to him that she was indeed a rare creature. 

 

Sansa gave little credence to the opinions of those who were not close to her, something many rulers struggled with. The most obvious example of this was their relationship. It was the worst kept secret in the North, Sandor knew this and had been concerned of what the lower lords, castle staff and his men would think of the whole thing. Not that he was in any way ashamed of their arrangement, he was getting the best end of the deal after all -- but he found himself being concerned with how Sansa would be received by others. They were always professional to one another on the outside, both of them made sure not to be caught in the open doing something that might be considered  _ inappropriate _ \-- but Sansa didn’t hide her affection for him either. 

 

Anyone who had lived in this world and had two eyes could see they were lovers, and exceptionally fond of one another. The way they would speak in whispers, the physical closeness they enjoyed, the smiles that would pass between them from time to time -- all pointed to what was going on behind the scenes. Though the young lordlings would still come to court, often with a gift and tales of far away lands. They were eager to turn her head, win Sansa over with their youth and finery. She would entertain them as was custom, but when the time came for them to ask for her hand Sansa would always decline. Whether it was polite or not depended on the lordling and his stubbornness. Only once did Sandor ever draw his sword in opposition to one of them. The little cunt had seen it fit to open his mouth and have some disparaging words for her Ladyship’s life choices. Sandor had immediately brought his sword to the lordling’s throat, stepping in front of her and preventing his opponent from even thinking about drawing his own -- keeping the young man frozen in place.

 

Sansa had walked around Sandor, bringing her hand to his neck and had stroked him sensually, her fingertips gracing his jaw and beard. “Now now my Sworn Sword, the boy meant nothing by it.”

 

The look she had given the young man, now about to piss his pants, had been a look of warning. That if he were to say another thing would she would unleash a beast upon him that only she could tame. It was true, Sandor did her bidding without question or hesitation and everyone knew it. The young lord barely found the courage to apologize, grab his things and leave the Great Hall as fast as he could. 

 

Sandor smirked to himself at this memory. If anything they were a great team when it came to fear and intimidation. Sandor was strong, fierce and terrifying to any man who would dare cross swords with him. Sansa was a rose, beautiful to look at but not without her thorns. Her sharp tongue could cut a man like a sword, and spout honey just as easily. After that incident there were very few lords, or ladies for that matter, who would voice their personal displeasure with the way Sansa had chosen to live her life. 

 

The handmaids and kitchen staff were an altogether different story, one that was more amusing than anger inspiring. Most, if not all of the handmaidens, had collected first hand experience with catching them in bed together. Sansa would not allow him to do as most Sworn Swords were required, sleep on a chair outside her rooms. Her logic fell more along the lines of, the closer he was to her the better he could protect her. While that might be very true, Sandor had always teased her that lying naked on top of her, with his cock burried deep bewteen her legs was probably overkill. Needless to say most of the handmaidens knew to bring two plates of food so they could break their fast. Whether in the middle of getting dressed, wrapped up in one another’s arms sleeping, or getting an early morning round of sex in, these women had seen it all. 

 

Sandor smiled when he thought of that -- of course their sloppy handling of the whole situation had lead to rumors. Some of them were amusing like him having two gargantuan penises or the fact that at the full moon he turned into a dog and fucked her Ladyship accordingly. This had the effect that half of the ladies in the castle feared him, often looking between his legs and trying to find the second penis, or having them bat their eyes at him with desire -- also looking for his second penis. Then there were those rumors that were not amusing in the least, such as Sansa being barren and a whore. Things that he knew would hurt her. Sandor did his best to protect her from those -- knowing it would sadden her deeply even if she didn’t show it. He was her Sworn Sword after all, and he interpreted his promise to protect her as reaching beyond the simple steel of his sword to the depths of her heart. 

 

With his men Sandor’s relationship with the Lady of Winterfell garnered him a respect that was unexpected. She had been true to her word, giving him command of her armies and putting him in charge of their readiness.  With time he had come to understand why the men held him in such high esteem. Sansa was a strict disciplinarian with her soldiers demanding them be both fit and competent. Any misstep was met with a heavy hand by their young and motivated liege lady. Every time there was an inspection she would not leave until everything was perfect. She was often checking their discipline, neatness and readiness -- leaning in and either praising Sandor or pointing out things for him to fix. It inspired an odd loyalty in these men that the Hound knew well from being a soldier. They felt prepared and capable, confident of their prowess on the battlefield, and that was how loyalty was won. It had the side effect of the men viewing him as if he were a god -- the warrior himself in the flesh. The only man who could please the strict and hardened Lady of Winterfell. He’d come up on some of the green boys drinking ales and talking. The bit of conversation he had gotten had made him smile. 

 

“I’d like to give it to her Ladyship, but I bet she’d rip my cock off and hand it to me first -- or look down and laugh at it.” One of the boys had said. They had all laughed at that and toasted to her beauty. 

 

“The Lord Commander must have a thing or two up his sleeve if she keeps turning down her suitors for him. I hear he makes her howl like a wolf every night.” Another said, all agreeing and drinking.

 

“It’s not up his sleeve you tosser it’s between his legs. What kind of a cock do you have?” They all laughed at that and gave a toast to the Lord Commander’s magical monster cock as he approached them.

 

Fear had slowly blanketed their faces as they stood at attention, ale spilling all over the floor. His arms crossed Sandor had stared at them until it grew horribly uncomfortable for them. There little legs twitching from nervousness. “If my horse’s stall floor isn’t clean enough to eat off of…” 

 

He didn’t have to finish his sentence as the there was a flurry of “Yes Lord Commander” and “Thank you Lord Commander” as they scurried out of the small room. It was amusing that they would be more scared of her than of him, but he liked it that way. She was a tough woman, one that demanded respect and even fear from her herd. She had to be twice as strong as a man to earn the same level of respect -- it wore on her and Sandor was in a unique position to see that.

 

In these years together Sandor had grown sensitive to her moods, could anticipate her needs better than anybody else. He had become her most trusted advisor, confidant and of course friend. For as hard and resolute as she appeared, when the door shut behind them, she would smile, laugh, cry -- the same as any other human being. To say Sandor had fallen in love with her would have been an understatement -- he was head over heels for her. Though it was not part of their deal.

 

Sansa had gotten him his lands back, a political fight that would have killed him just from the boredom of it all. Letters, ravens, diplomats -- all the shit that did not care for she had handled. She was a warrior of negotiation, her wit her sword and her tongue her shield. They had retaken his lands without a single death on their side. Sandor had however cut down a Lannister man who had moved threateningly toward her Ladyship during their tour of his lands. He had literally sliced the man in half without any warning, displaying the strength of his loyalty to the Lady of Winterfell for all his men to see. Later that night, on the floor of the Keep where he had grown up and lived a miserable existence, she had fucked him relentlessly -- her knees were black and blue the next day and all he could do was carry a knowing grin on his face.

 

Clearly she liked it when he killed. Deep down he knew that she did not hold it against him that he enjoyed his work -- that it was even cause for igniting her desire. All the better for him. Always in these moments of heightened passion Sandor could see something in her. Something behind those beautiful Tully eyes, something he wanted to know -- to explore for himself, something he hoped was love. _ ‘With time.’ _ He reminded himself,  _ ‘With time all is revealed.’ _ That didn’t make it easy though.

 

Woken from his musings as more water sloshed out of the tub, Sandor focused his eyes on the lady in front of him. Sansa wore a naughty look on her face while she bridged the distance between them, taking his erection in hand and guiding it into her. Using the side of the tub for balance, she lowered herself slowly onto him -- enjoying the friction between them.

 

Not having moved from his relaxed position in the tub, Sandor merely turned his eyes to hers. “You are a wicked woman.” He exhaled deeply as she took him inside her completely. 

 

Her fingers laced into his thick chest hair, she kissed his jawline lightly. “Then you shouldn’t tempt me if you don’t want me to be wicked.”

 

There were times in their relationship where she used sex as a stress relief, a way to let go of her grand responsibilities and just give herself completely to him. Those were the nights he ravaged her, held her down and fucked her like a man starved. “And your men wonder how you can be so fit standing around me all the time?” She would always tell him breathlessly, then grumble about how hard it was going to be to walk the next day. 

 

There were other times when they made love tenderly to one another, soft and gentle. Her fingers interlacing with his, the soft curves of her body pressed wantonly into his. On nights like this they were equals, two bodies working together for a mutual and higher pleasure. These nights always left him wondering about her true emotions. For as much as they shared, he could not shake the feeling that she was keeping things from him as well. Either unwilling or unable to admit her true feelings to him -- at least he hoped.

 

And then, of course, there were nights like tonight -- where she would prefer to use his manhood as her own personal play toy. Given the soreness of his thighs after several long days of riding, Sandor couldn’t find any grounds to complain. There was something deeply satisfying watching a beautiful woman use your best piece to get herself off. He would reach out occasionally to touch a breast, or run a hand over the curve of her hip. But when she had begun to move on him, use his eager cock to please herself, he never interfered. To touch her too much would influence her speed, depth and precision. She was chasing the little beast as he liked to call it -- pure sexual enjoyment -- a purely egotistical orgasim that was so deep and staisfying it almost brought him to completion just watching her do it. To throw off her perfect flow, would be to taint it somehow. He’d have his pleasure soon enough, but for now he would lay back and enjoy her -- doing his best not to lose it too soon.

 

_ ‘Gods she’s close.’  _ He realized as she settled on a rather intense rhythm that saw the water still being pushed continually from the tub. Her forehead was scrunched up in deep concentration, her breathing was labored, her fingers were clenching his chest tighter. Sandor was certainly a naughty man nudging her gorgeous breasts with his nose as they moved in front of him, but he was indeed just that, a man. A man who was slowly becoming a slave to a desired that burned deep within him.

 

“My Lady.” The door to her chambers swung open and Maester Luwin rushed in, a paper in his bloody hands.

 

Sansa’s eyes met Sandor’s and he could see the annoyance at being interrupted in their intimate moment in them. Her eyes never left Sandor’s as she answered the Maester, her back to him and the door. “Is it urgent?”

 

“I’m afraid so, my Lady.” Sandor could see Luwin’s face over Sansa’s shoulder and there was something in it that put him on edge. Normally the man would have excused himself rather nervously and scuttled away at having caught them engaged in such an act, but there was a tension he brought with him -- an unwelcome feeling.

 

Exhaling deeply with some annoyance, and giving Sandor an apologetic look, she uncoupled herself unceremoniously from him, stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a silk robe. Of course it stuck to her wet body leaving little to the imagination. This didn’t help Sandor’s erection despite the old man being in the room. Suddenly wishing the water were ice cold, Sandor slid down into the tub and cleaned off his face, coming up again quickly. In this time Sansa had traversed the room and was reading the letter the Maester had in his hand. 

 

_ ‘That’s not good.’  _ Her body language was tense, one of a cat ready to strike or flee -- all hairs on their tips. 

 

Sansa’s face was whiter than usual when she turned to Sandor and took the several paces to the tub handing him the letter. “How many of the lower lords are on our side?” She asked him, still looking at Sandor but speaking to the Maester.

 

Sandor didn’t catch the rest of the conversation, he had turned his attentions to reading the piece of paper she had handed him. Just the first lines were already enough to make him feel like somebody had punched him in the gut.

 

_ Lady Stark, _

 

_ I have called the council together to discuss your fitness to rule the North as First Among Equals. We have agreed a vote of confidence should be taken. _

 

All he could do was roll his eyes, the Northern Lords had always tested their power with her -- always searched for a weakness. They did not approve of her living arrangement, that much was clear -- but there was nothing in the law that forbade her. Sansa benefitted from the fact that her forefathers had never conceived a woman would inherit the position she had. She was well aware of this, knew she was walking a fine line. But this, was treason and Sandor knew it.

 

_ We have decided to meet at the Dreadfort to take a vote on the day of the new moon. Your attendance is requested. _

 

_ Signed, _

 

_ Lord Roose Bolton _

 

The names of the other five high northern lords were all written on it. Sandor had become well acquainted with Northern politics whilst in the service of her Ladyship. The Northerners ran their part of land differently from the others, favoring a council of equals. The Starks had been considered the First Among Equals, the tiebreaker, the most fit to control the North. So while the people may have called her the Queen of the North, it was not exactly the case. 

 

Now the troublesome lords were spitting in the face of her birthright. The Starks had headed this council for over a thousand years,  they would threaten to bring this union ascunder. He knew immediately what they would want from her and had to admit it made him nervous to think about what lengths she would be prepared to go to in order to keep her power. Not that she hadn’t asked for a challenge. Sansa refused to marry, put a Westerman in control of her armies, required more goods and crops from her vassals -- somehow Sandor had always known she would have to face this kind of a challenge. He also couldn’t discount the fact that  Lord Tywin might have had something to do with this -- they had reclaimed the West too easily from him and everything had a price. Sandor looked toward Sansa, focusing a bit more on the conversation unfolding before him.

 

“Look through the laws, scour them for anything you can find.” She was telling the Maester in heated tones. 

 

“What would you like me to find Lady Stark?” The old man asked, a bit overwhelmed by the task.

 

“Anything that helps!” Her voice was steady and cold, she was in fight mode now and nothing would bring her out. It was the heart of the wolf in her, it kept her focused on the task at hand.

 

“As you wish.” The Maester bowed slightly and made his way out of the chambers. 

 

By this time Sandor had gotten out of the tub, a towel around his waist, the letter in hand. Sansa ran her fingers through her wet hair frustratedly. She began to speak without looking at him, her voice tense. 

 

“We’ll leave tonight. I’ll need a carriage and some men and we’ll make our way to the Dreadfort then..” She was rambling, speaking without thinking.

 

“No.” Sandor said firmly, taking her by the shoulders and turning her to face him. Cupping her soft little face in his hand, Sandor lifted her head so that she would look at him.

 

Her eyes were sad, confused, scared even. It was an affront to her and her name, it was natural to be unnerved. 

 

Now that he had her attention he continued. “It will take me at least till the morning to get the men and supplies ready. It’s not a long ride but we should consider your safety.”

 

“I’ll need a carriage.” She said, her tone flat.

 

“Then it will take us even longer.” Sandor said, moving to where his trousers were and pulling them on. “We go on horseback, it’s quicker and safer if we’re attacked on the road.”

 

At this she laughed, “Do you really think Lord Tywin has the balls to assassinate me?”

 

Sandor finished pulling on his boots and looked at her from where he sat, her silk robe allowing him a glimpse at her sweet little pink nipples through the fabric. “Aye.” 

 

She shook her head and crossed her arms -- not pleased at all by his answer. “I need to read some things along the way, prepare myself for this battle as it were. The new moon is in three days and I will not be made a fool.”

 

At times like this Sandor wanted to shake her and tell her it wouldn’t matter if she arrived dead. While she may only have known Lord Tywin Lannister through his own reputation and some of the dealings over his land, Sandor had known him for the man he was -- ruthless. The old coot wouldn’t hesitate to have her killed on her journey, leaving the hands of the Northern Lords clean. Power and influence were one thing, money was another. And Lord Tywin had enough to knock off the Northern Queen, as the peasants had been given to calling her, from her pedestal. But of course, when she crossed her arms and set her hip, Sandor knew there was no arguing with her -- only negotiating was feasible.

 

“Fine, we’ll ready the carriage. But we will not leave before you have eaten breakfast and I have your escort ready. Tomorrow midday ok?” That would be the extent of his negotiation with her, she knew he would not waiver from this either. They were both stubborn that way.

 

Sansa eyed him a moment as if considering his words and weighing their validity before slowly giving in.

 

Sandor stood up and kissed her on the cheek, though she was in no mood for it. “I’ll come to bed once I’m finished.” He promised. “Now sleep, you’ll need your strength.”

 

Reluctantly agreeing she watched him move toward the door. “Sandor.” She said suddenly.

 

He turned, wondering what she had on her mind, hoping it was what he thought it would be -- what he had been waiting for. “Thank you.” She said, a weak smile on her face.

 

Nodding, he turned and exited her rooms. Sandor shook his head. Just as he thought he would get a moment of relaxation the gods had seen it fit to throw him a challenge. It would be a long road ahead. 

 

_ ‘Winter is coming.’ _ He thought to himself, wondering what would happen and how hard they would have to fight. Sandor took a moment to remind himself that wondering was a fool’s game. They would have to take the road head on, no matter what twists and turns came their way. There would be nothing that pleased him more than facing this challenge together with his little bird.

 


	2. The Storm Blows Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets more than she bargains for on the road to the Dreadfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

#  Chapter 2:  The Storm Blows Cold

 

Sandor had only gotten a few hours sleep that night as he went about preparing his men, and Sansa’s carriage for their journey to the Dreadfort. There was something wrong about the whole thing, it was as if his sixth sense was screaming out to him that going there was a terrible idea. But there was naught to be done, the Lady of the castle had decided and all he could do was advise her. At the very least he could say he had won a small victory in making sure she broke her fast on a full meal of beans, bacon and bread. Sansa would need her strength for the journey, and even more once she faced the Northern Lords. 

 

As he helped her into the carriage she smiled at him, it was the kind of smile every man in Westeros would have loved to have, but was only reserved for him. Sandor inclined his head as per usual but still couldn’t shake the feeling he had from his gut. His job was one of vigilance, constant awareness of situations that could threaten her safety. There was a moment where he even opened his mouth to tell her of these concerns, but she had already ducked inside of the carriage, her Maester behind her with some books in his arms. 

 

Inhaling deeply Sandor swallowed his concerns and got on his horse. It was a particularly cold fall day, there were dark clouds on the horizon. His captain of the guard pulled up next to him, “It’s an unlucky day my Lord, the clouds speak of snow and the wind comes from the north.”

 

Northerners were a superstitious lot and Sandor was not given to believing such foolishness, yet he couldn’t help but feel things were out of place -- everything stunk to high heaven. “Her Ladyship will hear nothing of it. Let’s move out before the storm hits.”

 

The captain nodded and they pushed their horses onward. They had a simple strategy, fifteen well trained men escorting the carriage, five upfront, five divided around the carriage and five bringing up the rear. They would move slowly of course, and Sandor prayed for the small favor of not having to mend the carriage along the way. There was not a lot of time to get to the Dreadfort, though it was not situated far from Winterfell. Any small thing could keep them long enough to miss this council meeting -- to have her lose out on maintaining her position in the North.

 

Ever the loyal sworn sword, Sandor pushed the small company fast and hard. The carriage, along with the fifteen men accompanying it tore through the countryside at a rapid pace. Sandor wanted to outrun the storm, try to push them as far as they could go for the night before trying to find a small inn to stay in. If they were lucky they could make it to the Bolton’s in two days instead of three. But Sandor was being optimistic, trying to ignore the feeling of uncertainty that pervaded his mind and focus on something he could actually manage -- their route to the Dreadfort. 

 

The wind had picked up, a strong northerly wind as they left the King’s Road and turned east, making a straight line to their destination. It was late afternoon by this time, the men were growing hungry the horses were weary.

 

“Let’s stop here for a quick rest.” Sandor ordered, a relief sweeping over their small company. They would stay just long enough to eat something, water the horses and go again for the storm was coming, the darkening clouds closing in like some terrible metaphor for the impending doom Sandor felt in the pit of his stomach.

 

Sandor didn’t know this part of the North well at all. What he could say was that it looked very much the same as the rest of the bloody place, more animals than people roamed the thick wood, which stretched nearly endlessly in all directions. The small road cut through the forest to the Dreadfort was narrow, uneven and not made for carriages.  _ ‘We should have ridden horses.’  _ Sandor said to himself, ‘ _ The carriage just makes us a bloody target and slows us down.’ _

 

Unmounting Stranger, Sandor tied him up near the little stream with the other horses and made his way back to her Ladyship. Opening the door of the carriage, Sandor was met by Sansa’s smiling face. He gave her a hand and helped her down to the soft floor of the forest covered with leaves and moss. 

 

“You look afright Clegane.” She said teasingly as the wind whipped her auburn locks around her beautiful face. “There’s nothing out here but bears and wolves and I dare say you could take on both with your bare hands.” Her eyes flashed over his body in a playful way, which signaled to him she must have found something in those books of hers to put her in a good mood. 

 

Though her comments did little to put him at ease he at least felt good that she was in high spirits. The night before she had been furious, livid, ready to lash out at the Northern Lords instead of the reason with them. Impulsiveness was not a sign of strength, Sandor had told her that many times and while she agreed with him -- she was still given to it. It was a weakness she would have to fix if she were going to rule the North -- and beyond -- properly. 

 

Nodding Sandor escorted the Lady of Winterfell to a tree so she could make her water in semi-privacy and took in the surroundings. She was right, the forest was eerily silent, except for the few squirrels that ran around placing their well earned nuts in small holes across the forest floor. His men were in high spirits, talking and joking with one another as they ate some salted beef and drank from the stream. All was good, all was well. ‘ _ Perhaps nothing will happen. You’re just being overly vigilant Clegane.’ _

 

Partially chastising himself for all this worry, Sandor lead Sansa back to the clearing where his men were packing their horses back up. He made his way to Stranger and petted his old friend on the nose. They had been through so much together, fought so many battles that they were like one being. He’d never felt so close to an animal before, never knew such a bond between man and beast could exist as it did between them. That was how Sandor immediately knew something was wrong, even before his men did -- for Stranger’s nostrils flared and the huge courser stamped his foot nervously. Sandor’s eyes widening he scanned the trees looking as deep into the woods as the greyness of the day would allow him.

 

Then he saw them, riders heading to their location through the woods in a full gallop. They were not simple travelers, they were attacking. “Stay sharp!” Sandor yelled and his men immediately stopped talking and turned toward the sound of the galloping -- that had been covered by the wind before. Without further notice all hell broke loose. 

 

Sandor ran with Stranger to where he had last seen Sansa, her eyes were filled with confusion and surprise. “Get on this horse and make for the King’s Road.” Sandor ordered her in a rush, not even asking her, just grabbing her and throwing her up atop his horse. 

 

“No.” She protested. “I won’t leave you.”

 

He could see the stubbornness in her eyes, but also how scared she was from the quickness of the attack. Her eyes as wide as a lost little doe. Luckily for her, Sandor thrived on the fog of war, in the heat of battle. He wouldn’t let her make the mistakes so many before her had made when faced with battle for the first time. 

 

But Sandor knew better.

 

“Don’t argue with me woman, I’ll find you.” He slapped Stranger hard on the hind quarters and she was forced to gallop off without further protest.

 

Turning to the mayhem, Sandor drew his sword and ran toward the yelling. His men were engaged with about twenty or so others, dressed in normal clothing but wielding weapons made in a castle. They were no normal bandits that much was already clear. Peasants had dull iron swords, slings and farm implements at their disposal -- which made for shitty bandit’s tools against an escort of soldiers. Theirs were steel, shiny and crisp. Even just the sound of his men’s swords crossing with those of the marauders was the high pitched sound of steel on steel, not the dull clunk of steel on iron. 

 

_ ‘They were waiting for us.’  _ Sandor knew it immediately as he positioned his grip on the sword.  _ ‘Fucking Lannisters.’ _ He knew Lord Tywin was behind it. Sansa had made quite a bit of trouble for him as they reclaimed Sandor’s lands -- the Lannisters always paid their debts and now Lord Tywin was out to make trouble for her.

 

“For Winterfell!” He yelled above the chaos, “For the Starks!” His final battle cry. 

 

There was a sense of pride that filled Sandor as he watched his men fight well against the odds. Some were falling, but most were doing as he had taught them, they were strong and polished -- it moved him deeply. But there was no time to get caught up in patting himself on the back. A rider was coming for him, a man on a horse coming for Sandor at full gallop. 

 

Sandor smiled. 

 

As a mercenary fighting the Dothraki he had learned many things, most of them were about how to unhorse a man. He fucking loved doing it, the excitement coursed through Sandor’s veins as he stood, unmoving in the path of the horse. He knew he would have to control his breathing, focus on the rider, and do everything he had learned correctly -- otherwise he’d be trampled. The rider had his sword in his right hand, coming up on Sandor’s left side, the weapon held high over his head for the attack. Shifting his sword to his right hand, Sandor rubbed the fingers of his left hand together nervously. They couldn’t be too sweaty, otherwise he’d miss the reigns. 

 

_ ‘Three, two, one…’  _ Sandor counted calmly.

 

The man swung his sword downward toward Sandor at in that moment Sandor grabbed the reins of the horse and, using the forward momentum of the animal, was able to swing himself up into the saddle from the opposite side. Kicking the rider off -- as he was already unbalanced from the swing -- Sandor made it easily up into the saddle without a scratch. He was however, dragging the man with him, his foot still caught in the stirrup of the saddle. With one downward swing Sandor severed his foot from his leg and was able to sit in the saddle completely.

 

Looking around he joined his men, making sure their line was not broken. They couldn’t let anybody through, they needed to kill these men before they got to Sansa. Sandor crossed swords with some other horsemen, taking advantage of his size and reach to fight them off -- his strength overwhelming the arms of most other men. From what he could see they were winning, slowly but surely his company of Northmen were winning. 

 

“Sandor!” Her screams rang through the forest, high and shrill. 

 

_ ‘She’s in danger.’ _ He’d never heard her scream like that, never heard her voice so helpless. It made his blood run cold, made Sandor fear -- it was an unusual feeling. It was a feeling Sandor was not given to, one he had banished from his mind. But the fear of losing her gripped him - drove him to action. He had one job and one job only, to protect her at all costs. If she were to die this day, if he were to lose her -- Sandor would never forgive himself. Sansa was the love of his life, the only person he had ever truly cared about -- she was the only hope for stability in the North. If she perished this day, it would be his greatest defeat and his greatest sorrow. 

 

“Sandor!” She screamed it again and his ears drowned out everything around him except for the sound of her voice. 

 

He pulled his horse toward the King’s Road and began to look frantically for her. The trees were so thick and the darkness of the storm so imposing, it was as if night were already upon them. Sandor dismounted when he saw a soldier weezing with her knife in his gut.

 

_ ‘Good girl.’ _ It seemed some of his training had brushed off on her, even though she had found it silly at the time. His self defense classes had always descended into intimacy, leading him to believe that she had not taken them very seriously. But from this, it seemed she had. 

 

Sandor picked up on a trail of blood, making all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. All the possibilities of what he might find at the end of that trail of blood were racing through his mind. Would she be dead? Was she merely wounded? Was there another on her trail as he was?

 

Gripping his sword tightly, Sandor made his way through the dark, grey woods in search of the Lady of Winterfell. The blood was not so much that the person leaving the trail was mortally wounded, that somehow didn’t put Sandor at ease. He stopped, clearing his mind of all of his conflicting emotions and closed his eyes. There was a rustling in the leaves that was more than just the wind moving them around. It was an uneven sort of thrashing that didn’t follow the pattern. Turning his good ear in that direction Sandor listened again, then opened his eyes and ran in that direction. 

 

He didn’t have to go far, for around some larger trees and down in a small hill he spotted them. She was alive and fighting back, which in turn made Sandor feel better as he adeptly navigated the loose dirt making his way down to the pair. Sansa was struggling against a man who had a dagger, his sword somehow lost as he had rolled down the small hill. 

 

“Come now your Ladyship, don’t fight. It’ll all be over soon enough.” The man was taunting her as she continued to kick at him and throw her nails in his face. 

 

Every time the knife came down she was dodging it, shifting his weight as he leaned over her. 

 

“Sandor!” She sobbed, no longer as strong as she had before. 

 

“He’s not coming for you Pumpkin. No one can hear you now.” The man was saying, stopping a moment to look at her. So focused on what he was doing that he didn’t hear Sandor creeping up behind him, for he certainly wasn’t ready to defend himself.

 

Thrusting his sword through the man’s back and up toward his shoulder, Sandor threw the man off to the side of Sansa, the gurgling sound of the man’s slow death permeated the small ravine where they were. Turning back to Sansa he could see the shock and fear on her face. She was splattered with the man’s blood, her blue eyes wide, her mouth agape. Assessing her Sandor could only see a cut on her arm, nothing serious. Kneeling down he brought her face to his chest, knowing she would not want him to see her tears.

 

“It’s over.” He whispered into her hair, “You’re ok.” She was trembling and all Sandor knew to do was to hold her until it passed. Relief swept over him with the knowledge they would be ok -- she was alive and that was all that mattered to him.

 

Sandor breathed in deeply, he could feel his body was finally relaxing since the early morning. Then he could feel her tense again. She pointed up to the stop of the small hill, not more than ten feet away. “We need that one alive Sandor!” 

 

Turning his head behind him to see, Sandor could see a man take off running. With lightning speed, as if the cold northern wind were aiding him, Sandor vaulted up the dirt and moss covered revine to the ledge and took off after the man. He had been wounded either by Sansa or another one of his soldiers, holding his side heavily -- but he was alive and perhaps their only way to figure out what had happened.

 

Quickly overtaking the man, Sandor fell upon him -- tackling him to the ground and smashing the side of his face with his fist. The enemy soldier in civilian clothing did not fight back, just curled up to protect himself from Sandor’s aggression. Containing his anger, but only barely, Sandor grabbed him by the tunic, lifting the man off the ground and carried him to a tree, flinging him down at its base. Before he had a chance to speak Sansa was beside him. She had, in the meantime, collected herself. The scared young woman she had been in the ravine was gone, in her place the she-wolf he knew well. The burnt side of Sandor’s mouth turned up in a grin -- she would survive and come out of the whole thing stronger.

 

Bending over the man Sansa observed the trembling, shaking bloody mass below her. Her head turned to the side a moment Sandor knew she was thinking about how to handle the situation. He remained silent, she was in no danger now he was there to protect and watch over her.

 

When she did speak, her voice was sweet like the spring, gentle as a lazy creek. She knelt down in the dirt so as to be eye level with their captive. “I know you must be scared.” She began. This had the effect that the man opened his eyes to look at her. “I would be too. I mean, look at him.” Sansa turned her head toward Sandor so that the man would follow her gaze. 

 

“That’s my Hound.” She whispered to the man, almost sweetly in his ear.

 

Sandor knew immediately what she was doing. They often played this game when they needed to get information out of people. Sansa the sweet and merciful beauty, he the savage beast. They used it to great effect. She hated calling him the Hound though, Sandor knew that because she always apologized after she did it. He never minded much, it was his name after all -- a name that struck fear in the hearts of mercenaries across Westeros and Essos, he’d fucking earned that name. But she hated referring to him as an animal, only doing it in situations like this where they were likely to profit from a man’s fear. Sandor stood there in the forest stoic, his grey eyes not betraying the amusement he felt.

 

“If I tell him, he won’t hesitate to rip you limb from limb. He’s a strong and loyal beast -- there’s not a man like him. He’s merciless when I ask him to strike, human emotions elude him.” The man trembled and shook at her words, imagining what Sandor could do to him. 

 

Grabbing their captive’s chin Sansa turned his eyes toward her. “But I, on the other hand, I can be merciful. If you tell me what I want to know, perhaps we can find an arrangement.”

 

The man glanced between her and Sandor briefly, Sandor licked his lips for effect which drove the man into Sansa’s hands. Their captive nodded to Sansa, signaling he wanted to cooperate and not be devoured by the infamous Hound.

 

“You aren’t a Northman, I could hear it in your voice when you were chasing me. Who sent you and where do you come from?” 

 

His voice shaking the man answered. “Lannisport my Lady.”

 

Sandor raised an eyebrow, that was Lannister country -- on the edge of his lands and very close to his Keep.

 

The man continued, “We were a small company of mercenaries. About a week back we were approached for a job...so...so we took it.”

 

His answer wasn’t satisfying enough for Sansa, she tilted her head to the side signaling that he’d need to give up more information than that to stay alive. “We were brought to a castle here in the North and trained. Trained for this kind of attack.”

 

“Who had you trained? I need names and descriptions!” Her voice was getting a little more heated, her desperation to know showing through her thinly veiled anger.

 

“I don’t know their names my Lady.” At that Sandor could see her cheeks flush up in anger, and for a moment he couldn’t be sure if she was going to throw herself upon the man. Sensing this as well, the man quickly spoke again. “But there were two. One was an old man, grey hair and long beard -- a thick northern accent to be sure. The second was younger, ah ah … a thinning hair, pointy nose…”

 

At this Sansa turned to Sandor, “Rickard Karstark and Roose Bolton.”

 

Sandor merely nodded, not wanting to give up his air of aloofness in front of their captive. 

 

“And your orders were?” She asked.

 

The man looked uncomfortable with the answer, shifting back and forth until finally he said it. “To bring them the head of Lady Sansa Stark.”

 

Nodding at the man Sansa patted him on the cheek, “You did well.” With that she got up and turned her back to him, looking at Sandor -- her hands demure in front of her body. She gave him the nod.

 

Unsheathing his sword Sandor stepped forward to the protests of the man. They didn’t last long, for Sandor lobbed off his head with ease, it hit the dry leaves and rolled a time or two before resting in the dirt not far from the man’s body.

 

Sansa turned then, her eyes softening when she looked at Sandor. “I’m sorry.” She said. Before he could speak she continued. “I’m sorry for not listening to you this morning about the carriage and for calling you...calling you..”

 

“It matters little now. We’re alive and we are whole.” He said, calming her. “How would you like to proceed?”

 

“What would you advise?” She asked him, her beautiful blue eyes searching his for guidance. He loved her, there was no way around it anymore. Bold, beautiful, strong, vulnerable -- she was everything he could have ever wanted in a woman. All he would ever need. 

 

“What he said was hearsay, we can’t be sure who is colluding against you. But we know it’s two of the six remaining lords. Which means we should bring the fight to them. We must show strength instead of weakness.” Sandor said it with confidence, she may very well have the majority if she were to show up to the vote at the Dreadfort. Clearly they had intended her to not show up at all.

 

Sansa nodded in agreement, “Bring his head.” She ordered, “I dare say we should collect a few more for what I have in store for them.”

 

He loved it when she had a plan, Sandor smirked and grabbed the head by the hair and escorting his lady back to the clearing where the battle had taken place. The wind was still blowing, a light snow had begun to fall as they came upon his men in the clearing. They had won the day, but were seven in total. Upon seeing Sandor and Sansa they let out  a victorious cheer and got down on one knee in respect of their lady. Looking around there were plenty of dead bodies littering the clearing, including the Maester. 

 

‘ _ His loss will be felt.’  _ Sandor knew it, he had brought Sansa into this world it would anger her deeply.

 

“It is I who should take a knee for what you have done this day. I thank you! Rise.” She said with all the power and authority of a lady of her station. The men were smiling, happy to have served her.

 

“Captain. I would ask you go to Winterfell and gather our army. March on the Dreadfort and quickly.”

 

“Yes my Lady.” The Captain eyed Sandor as if to ask him if everything would be ok. Sandor nodded, he would protect her now -- nobody would come close to Sansa now. Not while he was alive anyway.

 

Looking around for Stranger, Sandor whistled into the howling wind a time or two -- the horse popped out of the darkness and came to his side. Luckily he was uninjured, just a bit frazzled form having his rider taken off of his back. Sansa had gone into the carriage to grab some items, among them a book of laws and her dress for the Dreadfort. 

 

Sandor collected a few more heads and was tying them up in an old cloak when she came to him. They did not speak, Sandor merely lifted her into his saddle, knowing she was too tired and still in too much shock to ride on her own. Aside from that, he wanted her close to him, he had made enough mistakes today -- he wouldn’t be making them again. Getting into the saddle behind her, Sandor pulled his lady close. She put her head back on his chest, reveling in their proximity. Uncharacteristically he kissed her atop her head in front of his men, he’d nearly lost her this day and saw no harm in it.  Sandor wrapped his large cloak over her as well, he would shield her from the falling snow just as much as he would from swords and steel. There was a town not far, Sandor knew this from the map. Perhaps there they would find a small inn where they could speak -- formulate their plan more clearly. A storm was brewing in the North, a storm that blew cold and harsh. If Sansa were going to weather this storm, she would have to match it blow for blow.

  
  



End file.
